


Oysters and Aardvarks

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Aziraphale (Good Omens), Episode 3 Cold Open, Excessive Drinking, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Rome - Freeform, Short One Shot, Silly, Unrequited Love, crowley watches aziraphale eat, petronius and his oysters, we love one disaster noodle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22553290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: Crowley accepts Aziraphale's invitation to try oysters, they drink, and one of them gets messy drunk. It's a whole thing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 206
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	Oysters and Aardvarks

Doing remarkable things to oysters, as far as Crowley can tell, means doing nothing at all. They are cold, wet, and salty. He waits for Aziraphale to admit that the dinner is a bust but, apparently, he’s enjoying the slimy things, tipping them down his throat and making satisfied little moans.

Crowley pushes the platter across the table and closer to Aziraphale.

“Not quite to my taste,” he explains with a shrug. “At least I can say I’ve tried them.”

Aziraphale positively _glows_ at being offered Crowley’s share.

“Oh! Well, if you’re sure?” He asks, having already turned the platter around to better access Crowley’s rejected oysters.

The wine, on the other hand, is exceptional. Far better than Crowley had expected to find in this neighbourhood. Already two jugs in, he pours another cup for Aziraphale. A drunk angel is proving to be _much_ more fun than a sober one.

“So,” Aziraphale starts, apropos of nothing, “this is a new look for you.”

He gestures vaguely towards Crowley with an almost dismissive flick of the wrist.

“Hm?” Crowley is snapped out of his casual observation of the way that Aziraphale’s throat moves when he swallows. “Oh, yeah. I suppose.” He touches his hair self-consciously. "Long hair seems to have fallen out of fashion for males.”

Aziraphale squints at him, already having to concentrate on focusing his eyes. Crowley feels like he’s being inspected. He pushes his glasses up his nose and lifts his chin in response.

“The hair is very nice, of course,” Aziraphale begins, looking unsure of himself, “but I rather meant the eyewear.”

Crowley’s mouth sets into a thin line. Surely Aziraphale can see the need for the glasses, smoked lenses shielding his venomous gaze from unsuspecting humans.

“Oh, I’ve offended you. I’m terribly sorry.” Aziraphale starts to back-pedal when Crowley doesn’t respond, shutting down the easy flow of chatter that they had been enjoying.

“Nah,” Crowley shakes himself out of the forming sulk in time to try and rescue the evening. “Don’t be daft, angel. It’d take a lot more than that to offend me.” He offers Aziraphale a grin that’s all teeth and no humour. “I just thought that it was fairly obvious. Humans don’t have a lot of tolerance for things that are _different_.”

At this, Aziraphale relaxes back into his chair and, for the first time, Crowley is grateful for his dark glasses and the way they obscure the relief that must be bleeding through his eyes.

“Do they not rather draw attention to your eyes?” Aziraphale asks into his cup as if it offers deniability for his words.

“Perhaps,” Crowley says carefully, he isn’t ready to dive into the bottomless pit of issues that this conversation about his eyes and his motivations for covering them will undoubtedly trigger. “It’s easier to deflect those questions on the rare occasion that someone is brave or stupid enough to ask.”

Aziraphale seems content with this answer, picking up another oyster and giving a pleased little grin. Despite himself, Crowley leans forward, resting his elbow on the table and his chin on his fist.

Like the crowd at the coliseum or the audience at a popular tragedy, Crowley is on the edge of his seat for the finale. He follows the pink tip of Aziraphale’s tongue as it wets his lips, the lift of his hand as he brings the rough shell to his soft mouth. Aziraphale’s eyes flutter closed as his lips part and Crowley leans so far over the table that he can practically taste the oyster himself.

The shell tips back, Aziraphale’s chin lifts, and Crowley stops breathing. The obscene, slow, sensual rise and fall of Aziraphale’s throat as he swallows seals Crowley’s fate. This is a thing now, this watching. The gentle sigh of pleasure is just the cherry on top of an already over-decorated cake.

As Aziraphale opens his eyes and smiles softly, Crowley panics, realising too late that he’s been caught in the act. With a snake-like strike, he snatches up the jug of wine and tops up Aziraphale’s cup. It’s a shoddy cover but Aziraphale only smiles over the rim of his cup as he takes a sip.

Crowley doesn’t mean to get Aziraphale properly drunk. He certainly doesn’t mean to get Aziraphale so drunk that he can barely stand. It’s just easier to suggest following dinner with another jug of excellent wine than to consider watching Aziraphale leave. Then it’s only polite to accept Aziraphale’s invitation back to his rooms once the restaurant closes.

Crowley doesn’t think about what it might mean that Aziraphale wants to spend more time together. In fact, he puts rather a lot of energy into not thinking about it at all.

Sure, Crowley is drinking the wine too. He just seems to be topping off Aziraphale’s cup far more often than his own. Before he knows it, Aziraphale is staring at him with unfocused eyes, three sheets to the wind, and worrying at his bottom lip.

Crowley stands, unable to face whatever has Aziraphale on the verge of tears, and wanders over to the small desk against the far wall. He’s prodding at various bits of parchment and such when he hears Aziraphale push himself up and off the low couch. The following yelp and thump are alarming enough that Crowley turns around in surprise.

There’s a pile of angel on the floor, tangled in a rug and his own limbs, looking rather sorry for himself.

“Oh, for damnation's sake, Aziraphale,” Crowley huffs as he crosses the room and begins the unreasonably complicated task of helping Aziraphale get back to his feet.

“The room, Crowley. It wen’ all wobbly.” Aziraphale says once he’s upright again.

Crowley releases him only to immediately grab hold again as it becomes clear that Aziraphale can not stand unaided.

“Let’s sit you down, angel. Maybe it’s time to sober up, eh?” Crowley says gently as he ducks his head under Aziraphale’s arm to support him for the two paces back to the couch.

“Can’t.” Aziraphale shakes his head vigorously.

Feeling weary already, Crowley lowers Aziraphale onto the seat and makes to return to his previous seat across from Aziraphale. A firm hand on the collar of his tunic holds him fast.

“Sit with me, please?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley finds that he has very little choice in the matter.

As soon as he sits, Aziraphale releases his death grip and Crowley manages to smooth out the worst of the creases in an attempt to regain a measure of his composure.

“Come on now, Aziraphale. Sober up, at least a bit, yeah?” Crowley knows he’s pleading but this is his fault and the last thing he needs is a commendation for discorporating Aziraphale.

“ _Can’t!_ ” Aziraphale whines dramatically, flopping his head onto Crowley’s shoulder and looking up at him.

Crowley doesn’t know when he stopped feeling drunk, whether it was when Aziraphale fell, or when he was held tight by the neck of his tunic, or just this very instant, but he knows that he needs to be the responsible one for both of them right now.

“I can’t do it for you, angel, so how about a little lie down instead?” Crowley starts to lean Aziraphale down onto the couch whilst desperately _not_ thinking about how they might look from an outside perspective.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale is resisting and insistent.

“What is it, angel?”

“Don’t be an aardvark!” The plea is almost a sob and, when Crowley pulls back to look at Aziraphale, he looks so deeply distraught and panicked that Crowley knows he’s missed a connection somewhere on this train of thought.

“What _are_ you talking about?” Crowley shakes his head to try and make sense of this development.

“I don’t want you to be an aardvark!” Aziraphale hiccups. “I like you as you are and even when you’re a snake but I don’t want you to be an aardvark. I don’t know what they eat or where they live and I wouldn’t know how to tell you apart from all the other aardvarks. Can they even drink? Oh dear, I’d probably give you alcohol poisoning if you were an aardvark. Stay as a demon, please.”

By the time that Aziraphale has rambled out his nonsensical plea, he’s clearly on the verge of sobbing. The little spasms of his ribs knock him into Crowley’s chest and his eyes are brimming with tears that threaten to spill over.

It’s all that Crowley can do to stare at him in dumb, uncomprehending shock, waiting for the penny to drop, knowing that the missing piece is somewhere within his brain and he just needs to find it.

“You’re the best demon, Crowley,” Aziraphale positively wails. “You’d probably be a great aardvark but I would be so lonely.”

“Oh, you daft thing. I’m not going to become an aardvark!” Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and holds him to his chest as he reassures him. “That was a joke, Aziraphale. You’re stuck with me as I am.”

Red rimmed eyes peer up at Crowley, hopeful but wary.

“Really? You’re not going to leave me?”

_Fuck._

This is too much. Crowley’s only just starting to acknowledge that he’s a bit too pleased to see Aziraphale whenever their paths cross. That, perhaps, he’s growing _fond_ of the bastard in a way that his Lower Downs will certainly not approve of. He’s most decidedly not ready to face a tearful Aziraphale looking softly hopeful that Crowley, of all beings, is someone he can rely on.

The alternative is letting Aziraphale down, though. He’s even less prepared to find out how that might feel.

“Really. You’re definitely stuck with me as your earthly adversary.” Crowley soothes, holding Aziraphale as close as he dares and casting his eyes towards the ceiling.

Someone up there is laughing at him, he just knows it.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, not sorry. This made me laugh.


End file.
